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Confessions of a (former) Probationer.

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My tags: significantly more beat-up since the last time we saw them.

Yes, that’s right. The title says it all; not only have I completed my probation, but I’m willing to share all the stupid stuff I did while I was in that period. Some things are more serious than others, depending on where you’re assigned. Take each for what it’s worth to you.

While I was a Probationer/Rook/Sh*tbag/Stupid-ass Rookie/Probie/Hey-what’s-your-name/Dumbass-F*ckin’-Rookie-Paramedic, I have done all of the following:

  • Fallen asleep at the watch desk, several times.
  • Napped at work (yes, during the daytime, both in the sitting room and in the bunkroom; I was sneaky).
  • Watched all sorts of TV before 8pm.
  • Sat on the bench in front of the firehouse, usually a privilege reserved for those who have completed probation.
  • Screwed around on YouTube, Facebook, Hulu, etc.—sometimes at the behest of coworkers, sometimes not.
  • Washed my car in the middle of the day, ignoring the phone and everything else I was supposed to be doing.
  • Simply refused, for whatever reason, to wear my god-awful polyester shirt and red-tag combination that is the signature garb of a rookie.

I’m sure there’s more; certainly that can’t be everything that happened between Academy graduation in early ’09 and now. However, I suppose it will suffice to bolster my list of pleasant memories from probation, of which there are (surprisingly) quite a few—once you figure it out, it’s actually not so bad.

But now that it’s over, I can’t help but think that it’s kind of like having a birthday: people ask you: “So, do you feel any different?”

The answer’s always the same: ehh, not really.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad it’s over, but as far as anything drastically changing? I’ll still study, and mop, and do dishes. I’m okay with that. It’s part of this job. I just have a few more freedoms now.

It’s been a good ride thus far, and I only see it getting better. Just another milestone…

The long-awaited Dublin Fire Brigade update!

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A voice rang out from down the hallway, with it’s owner appearing around a corner seconds later.

“Hey! We’ve got a call near the Liffey!

Glenn turned his head from us and cursed quietly.

“Are we goin’ swimming?” he asked, tentatively.

“Nah, I don’t think so.”

Glenn’s head lolled back towards us with a sheepish grin.

“Oh, thank God for that. I’m on the back step tonight, and that river’s dirty as hell.”

Glenn Delves is 29 years old and has been with the Dublin Fire Brigade for seven years. Currently assigned to the Tara Street station (which also serves as Brigade headquarters during the the day), his role as a firefighter, paramedic, and swiftwater rescue technician is nothing unique to the 40-some other firefighters in the house with him.

“Oh yeah, we’re all paramedics… and it just makes sense for most of us to be SRTs, since the river is right nearby and we go in there pretty frequently for all sorts of stuff.”

Waitaminute, back up. Forty firefighters?

“It’s the biggest house in Dublin. Even after HQ shuts down for the day, we still have a lot of people here.”

Almost as if he anticipated the question (probably by the incredulous look on my face), he added:

“Oh, and kitchen duty is horrible.”

Screen shot 2010-03-09 at 11.31.13 AM

The tour of the firehouse was brief but fascinating. The station opened at the intersection of Tara and Pearse Streets was opened as DFB headquarters in April of 1908—the old brick watchtower still stands, and is a historically protected structure by the city of Dublin. Today, it exists as an open-air station with canopy covers for the apparatus and multiple floors for bunkrooms, the mess hall, administrative offices, and “Control Room” (the call-taking center for the entire city as well as many surrounding counties, staffed 24 hours a day by full-time Brigade personnel).

Unfortunately, our trip was cut short by Glenn and the rest of his crew headed out on calls—with approximately 133,000 calls annually, the Dublin Fire Brigade must balance the average 364 daily calls amongst twelve full-time (and three on-call or “retained”) stations. However, with locations like Tara Street staffing two engines, two ladder trucks, one tower ladder, two ambulances, a Haz-Mat Unit, and a District Officer, the workload seems pretty well spread-out.

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It was a wonderful trip, and I can’t express my gratitude to the DFB enough. If there’s any Dublin Fire personnel reading this, I sincerely appreciate your hospitality and wish you all the best in your careers—take care and stay safe, brothers.

Oh, and if you ever need a place to crash in D.C., drop me a line and I’d be more than happy to help out.

/RL

ireland_RL-13_smGlenn Delves, a seven-year veteran of the Dublin Fire Brigade, opens compartments on the fire engine and describes the equipment contained within.


ireland_RL-14_smAs Swiftwater Rescue Technicians (SRTs), the crews of the Tara Street station keep their river rescue gear ready on the apparatus at all times.


ireland_RL-15_smThe Dublin Fire Brigade utilizes Dräger breathing apparatus; three SCBA packs line the rear wall of the bench seat for the firefighters “on the back step” for that shift.


ireland_RL-12_smI think it’s universal: DFB personnel dislike their ambulance rotations just as much as their American counterparts do, it seems.

(I can just hear Dave Dennis now: “That suck-ass rookie paramedic would go to an Irish firehouse and take pitchurrs of a ambalance!” Yep—go ahead, Dave, have your fun.)

ireland_RL-9_smThis button from the DCFD Emerald Society is older than I am. There’s quite an impressive wall of patches just inside the entrance to the station—incidentally, one of Glenn’s coworkers is now the proud owner of a classic E26/T15 “Foghorn Leghorn” patch.


ireland_RL-17_sm(I bet they hate the sound of their printer winding up, too.)


ireland_RL-26_smAfter Firefighter Delves (unfortunately) stated that he disliked his appointed nickname of “Glennsy,” the jokes compounded until his gear was permanently branded with “Glennsy Delvesy” in permanent marker. Much to his chagrin, he discovered it just as he was escorting these visitors through the facilities.


ireland_RL-28_smThe distinctive markings on this helmet indicate the rank of “sub-officer;” personnel advance from Firefighter to Sub-Officer to Station Officer to District Officer and beyond, receiving increasing responsibilities with each promotion.


ireland_RL-25_smWe arrived just in time for evening shift change, so we were witness to the daily equipment checks; it would appear that DFB ladder technicians get to ride in comfortable style while operating the turntable.


ireland_RL-24_sm(I would be remiss if I didn’t include something about “raising” a “ladder”, no? Terrible joke, I’m sorry.) Both DFB aerial ladders within the Tara Street Station reach 100′ in the air when fully extended. “There aren’t too many high-rises throughout the city,” say Firefighter Delves, “but we’re downtown. The business district around us has the highest buildings you’ll see in Dublin.”


ireland_RL-16_smAll hose carried on the apparatus is kept rolled. At a fire, the equivalent of the American lineman’s position would get off the piece, unroll a section of hose, connect a nozzle, and then advance to the structure; the Dublin Fire Brigade does not utilize pre-connected lines.


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The DFB operates on a 39-hour work week, across four shifts (designated A through D). The spacious accommodations of Tara Street are more than enough to feed and house approximately forty personnel per shift, from firefighter through the on-duty District Officer.

—————

On a non-fire department note: a little bit later, I’ll add some pictures from the highlights of the remainder of my vacation. I know it’s not particularly relevant to RL as a whole, but it’s a beautiful country, and I would highly recommend Ireland for anyone who enjoys traveling.

Nikon Festival: Video Submission

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I’ve just completed and uploaded my official submission for the Nikon Festival “A Day Through Your Lens” competition (this might explain the absence from blogging for a bit, eh?)

In keeping with contest rules, I’m not supposed to upload the video anywehere for public viewing except through the contest website, so I’ll just have to link it:

Twenty-Four Hours: A Day With Raising_Ladders

It was a hell of a project, but I’m glad to finally have it completed and sent in—now I can take a much-needed break from editing.

Thanks to everyone who helped, including my family, my friend/editor Sean, and the entire crew at E26 #2.

/RL

You know you’re a probationer when:

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• You’re telling your friends where to meet up later that night, but directions to the bar include “it’s right near the hydrant on the southwest corner,” or “…it’ll be in the twelve-hundred-block of  Connecticut Ave.”

• “Yes, sir” has entered your everyday lexicon, even at home.

• Directions to your house have ended with the phrase “…to box.”*

• When a late-night phone call suddenly wakes you up, your legs swing out of bed and you fumble around in the dark for your boots. Oh wait… yep, I’m in my apartment. Dammit.

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• When responding to even the simplest of questions, one must fight off the urge to recite what particular article, section, and sub-section the answer comes from in the Department Order Book.

• You have become very, very good at washing dishes.

• Between your name tag, Probationer tag, and your collar brass, various items get snagged or ripped off your uniform all the time. Thus, wearing any collared shirt at home has become an exercise in absent-mindedly touching your clothing to make sure everything is pinned on properly—and then realizing that you’re an idiot.

• While you’re running errands, the distinct ring of a multi-line phone system causes you to look around and think for a split second that you have to go answer it. You soon realize you’re in bank, or an office, or a restaurant.

• Similarly, you have an unexplainable urge to answer your cell phone within two rings.

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—————

Note: The phrase “…to box” is a reference to the information book in the firehouse. If you flip it open and look up a certain box number in our response area, the directions read something like this:

Box 1234: Left on Smith Street, right on Jones Avenue, right on Davis Terrace to box.

Random thoughts from last tour.

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Don't stick your head too far out the window to look at stuff when driving around—while wagon drivers are quite adept at avoiding obstacles, tree branches don't really count.

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Chicken gravy is a rather unprofessional thing to find splattered on your pants as you pull up to a medical call. It's even worse to reach in your pocket for gloves and find an actual piece of chicken.

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When you encounter someone who clearly blows you off/ignores you when you make an effort to introduce yourself (simply because you're a rookie), the very next person you meet will give you hell for not introducing yourself.

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Corrollary to the above: You can't win—but try anyways.

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It's great fun to look through a Fire Department yearbook (if that's what it is; it's a similar layout) from thirteen years ago and look up your current instructors/officers/chiefs. There's some wonderful history to be found… and some excellent mid-nineties haircuts.*

—————

If you sleep late in the bunkroom after you've been relieved, you may or may not be awakened by an air horn and a strip of firecrackers thrown in the door like a SWAT-team's flashbang grenades. I, uh… heard about that happening once. In a magazine. Yeah, it was in a magazine.

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I wasn't aware that they sell pink tank tops with "FLIRTY SEXY SPOILED GIRL" written in glitter… in XXL sizes.


/RL


*It's not mine, so I'm trying to grab a few snapshots. Trust me, I want the pictures, too.

We’re everywhere…

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The list goes on and on. Every time I look online, there's a new product/service/business offered from, inspired by, or aimed at firefighters. It's always interesting to find something new and read the "About" page to see how this particular product came about; if there's one thing firefighters are good at, it's telling stories!

Most, if not all, of the products share a few common traits.

1) A percentage of the profits go to charitable organizations (burn foundations, etc.)
2) The products are usually lauded as "time-tested;" the idea is that if something can withstand the rigors of a firehouse and the critique of the old-school guys, it has to be good.
3) They stemmed from firemen who have genuine interests in a particular field, like cooking or fitness—not a snake oil salesman looking to make a quick buck off of something like the Pet Rock.

I recently acquired a bottle of Three Alarm Cellars wine, and it was delicious. The artwork on the label (a 1945 Diamond T Fire Engine) is all hand-drawn by a Captain of the Sonoma Fire Department in California.

Any readers have any great stuff that's created/inspired by firefighters that I didn't mention? Leave it in the comments!

Details.

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A page from The Writer's Block, a cube-shaped book (get it?) 
full of random ideas to jump-start the creative half of your brain. 
I was flipping through it the other day and found this page.

"Paramedic Engine 15 and Ambulance 15, respond for the cardiac arrest…"


Dammit. I haven't even done the run sheet from the last call, I thought as I rose from my chair.

As we pulled up to the outside of a laundromat, a gathering crowd partially obscured our view. As best we could tell, there was one guy on the ground, and other kneeling next to him performing CPR. Sean hopped out and made his way over to the group while I grabbed the ALS bag and the monitor from the rear compartment. 

"Come on, move out of the way… move it!"

As I approached with gear in tow, I could hear a plea for the crowd to give us some space. The bystander who was doing CPR stood up, brushed his pants off, and started fumbling through his pockets for something as Sean did a quick assessment of our patient. 

As if in some surreal form of stereo, I suddenly had information coming from both sides that smashed together in my brain hard enough to stun me for a second.

CPR guy, right channel: "See, I did it right! I got my certifications right here, man!" He produced the fruits of his frantic pocket search, shoving a wallet-worn and very out-of-date American Red Cross CPR card in my face.

Sean, left channel: "Uh, this guy's got a pulse. And a good strong one, at that."

Um…

(#296 on my list of Things I Wish I Had Said to Bystanders: 

"Well then you, my good sir, did not pay enough attention in class.")

The ambulance was already there, and we scooped the patient up and loaded him into the back. He wasn't breathing enough on his own, so we assisted with ventilations until I could get an IV started. It appeared to be a pretty textbook narcotic overdose, so I grabbed the Narcan* and pushed it into the IV line. 

A moment later: [retch] "What the— where the hell am I?"

"You fell out, man. Looks like you took a little too much tonight, and you stopped breathing."

"That's bull, man. Why y'all lying to me? I'm a gangsta, son."

(#297: "You're right, sir. We must have put all these wires and tubes all over you by accident. Our apologies! Please continue with your recreational activities.")

This went on for a while. Ultimately, he refused all further care from us. We talked him down from just ripping all the stuff off himself, but he still wanted to leave the back of the ambulance as soon as possible. 

As he stepped out, he was heckled by his friends, who by now had formed into a small social gathering that smelled faintly of malt liquor. 

One of his more illustrious acquaintances, upon hearing repeated statements of how "gangsta" our patient thought himself, decided to show that she was considerably more so by pulling a large handful of bright yellow boxer shorts out above the waistline of her pants. 

"You ain't nothin', man. I got Spongebob-mothaf***in'-Squarepants. What you got, huh?!"

This may or may not have been the same person who was initially rubbing loose ice cubes on the patient's genitals shortly before we arrived on scene. (Some people think that the cold shock will wake up an overdose patient, but current trends in "D.C. bystander medicine" are best saved for another post. Two words to remember: dairy products.)

—————

The first time I flipped through that Writer's Block book, I must have been in middle or high school. I'm sure I saw the above page, but never ended up using it as a story idea. However, I sincerely believe that if I had followed the instructions at the time, it would have sounded nothing like what I've written in this blog to date. 

Imagination and creativity are one thing; documenting reality is entirely another. 

Oftentimes, I find the latter to be way more entertaining. 

WeLoveDC.com; publicity for RL!

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Tom Bridge, co-founder and author of WeLoveDC.com came across Raising Ladders the other day, and he liked it so much that he posted a brief write-up in the WLDC daily feed.

WeLoveDC.com is a collective blog written by a diverse population of authors who all have one thing in common: they are all enamored with Washington. Whether about politics (of course), food, culture, technology, or any other topic beneath the tip of the Monument, these authors have got it covered.

I honestly didn't expect such kind words, and for that I'm very grateful. Many thanks to Tom and the entire WLDC team!

—————

Last night 15 had a typical "no-sleep-due-to-a-call-every-forty-five-minutes" kinda night. I felt like a zombie this morning, which I've concluded is due to walking throughout a run-down four-building complex for an hour, forcing doors to try and turn off a malfunctioning fire alarm. 

Sure, I understand you don't want building occupants messing with the utility closets, which is why you've placed four different damned locks on the two doors that are barricading the one doorway. Okay, fine. We got through 'em anyways. 

Yawn. Let's pretend it's a forcible entry drill, reset the alarm, and get back to the firehouse already. 

Nope. 

3 a.m.: Respond for the "tummyache" (yes, that was actually the complaint).

4 a.m.: "I think there's a bug in my ear." (Actually, it was more like "AHH HOLY MOTHER OF [censored for the children] THERE'S A BUG IN MY EAR GETITOUT GETITOUT GETITOUT!")
Sigh… I don't suppose it'll even be worth it to try and sleep next tour. Friday night in Southeast? Not a chance.

I, however, wouldn't want it any other way. 

—————

Who knew a vinyl Halloween costume could mean something after so many years?

(I don't think I'll still be able to fit into it, though. I should probably stick to the gear I was issued. It seems… safer.) 

The next hoop.

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Some good news is being passed around today. I've received word that a handful of us paramedics are being pushed along into the next stage of the DCFD pipeline, starting Monday. There's some meetings, some more paperwork (I'm sure), but it at least it means that we're moving forward. 


Sadly, it means that I may be leaving Engine 15 rather soon. I knew it would happen, but it's just been way too much fun for it to be over this fast. 

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Besides, I got to run at least a couple fires, this one most recently. (For posterity, please note the second sentence in the article. I may not be assigned there, but I can still have pride in my temporary home.)

I mean, it was only a car and a detached garage on fire, but what can I say; it's better than running a medical local. And after all the "food on the stove" and "report of smoke in the area" calls that turn out to be nothing, I remember looking up while running the 400' and being surprised that something was actually on fire.

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I've learned a lot thus far from the guys at E15 and RS3; I think I've still got a few more tours there before I go somewhere else, so I'll try and get the most out of it that I can. 

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History.

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"Y'all better be alert! Best pay attention over here!"


The members of Engine 15 and a truck company were standing around the scene of a gas leak; we had just shut the supply off when our attention was drawn to the shirtless man quickly walking up to us. 

"You know why? You know why? Because I'm about to go smoke this rock right here."

He thrust his clenched left hand proudly in the air, pumping his fist like he had just won the lottery.

"…and if I smoke too much, and I need y'all… Imm'a call you on my phone right here."

In mirror image, he reached deep into his pocket and switched his dramatic pose; now wildly brandishing a cell phone with his right arm, he stared and waited for some reaction.

Indifferent to the man's statements (and probably growing bored), one of the guys from the truck company turned to our newfound friend and extended a pudgy finger in my direction.

"Well, I'll tell you what. The man you need to talk to… is right there."

Dammit. 

("Probationary Manual, Chapter Eight: Talking to Excited Crack Heads for the Laughter and Enjoyment of Older Firefighters.")

Mr. Rock Addict began sauntering over to me, when he stopped short. His eyes looked me up and down for only a second, but it was enough to make him spin in place and hightail it back the way he came.

"Naw, f*** that guy. He a rookie… I ain't talkin' to no rookie."

Great. Even the southeast crackheads know I'm the new guy. (Damned red tag…) 

—————

This, of course, is nothing new for the area. Highly entertaining stuff has been happening down here for years. A few tours back, another firefighter and I went looking through the archived logbooks for Engine 15 and Rescue 3, and we were browsing through a book from 1987. They ran a hell of a lot more fires than the department does today… some of the logbook pages were just unreal. A big house fire in the morning, followed by a nasty car wreck, then another working fire, then seeing smoke showing from an apartment and filling out the box on the way back from the previous fire! I suppose the only comfort that today's crews can take is that they ran a whole bunch of medical local calls back then, too; I've included a few of the more interesting excerpts I found.

Medical Local, 1635 hrs / E-15 stood by for medic unit with 1 male who broke his shoot-up needle in his neck, E-15 performed miscellaneous acts.

Medical Local, 2306 hrs / RS-3 obtained a signed release for who knows?

Medical Local, 1258 hrs / E-15 for a man wanting to go to the hospital to get away from the little green people!!!


Seeing as we had access to the entire collection, I had to read about what this house did on my birthday (not that I was anywhere near Anacostia, much less the east coast in general.) So, digging up the proper book, I found:

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We were even able to go all the way back to 1948. Seeing the old script, and the ink bleeding through the fragile pages was like staring back through decades of history. Call it cliche, but there's something slightly poetic and awe-inspiring about having access to a written account of everything that occurred in this firehouse since the Cleveland Indians last won the World Series (yes, that was 1948. They're really just awful.)

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Every call, every announcement, every single thing that happened on that shift, was recorded on paper in the once-prized scrawl of proper penmanship that has fallen into nonexistence today. 

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(It made me wonder about the oldest book in the Department; where is it kept, and whose logbook is it? I'd imagine it's up above Engine 3.) 

Either way, the books haven't changed much. It did, however, serve as a fascinating way to pass the time at the watch desk until the modern-day E-15 had to go run our own medical locals… little green men and all. 

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Enjoying the fireworks.

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We pulled up to the building on 12th street and hopped out. Taking a second to scan the street, I saw only a single truck company and Rescue 3 pulling up beside us.

"Uh… aren't we fourth due?"


"Yep. Come on, rook… let's run the 400."

And so in the front door we went. We stretched as much line as we could, eventually heading down to the basement of this typical Southeast apartment building.

I flicked my light on, and panned it slowly across the room. 

"This is too smoky to just be the idiots setting off fireworks inside the building… something's on fire here."

My mentor's voice cut through the haze of smoke, and the outlines of the guys from Engine 15 were visible as we moved through the debris in the basement.

(I stopped for a moment, remembering my old Sergeant telling me to follow the smoke as you see it in the beam of light.)

"Is it over here? The smoke's going that way, so…"

As if on cue, we all moved towards a big pile of wood that was blocking a small hatch. Two of us started tossing doors and hunks of wood out of the way (one of which gave me a pretty good smack in the face), and we were able to open it up after a minute or two.

I'm not 100% on how it happened, but a mattress was smoldering under the first floor. Extinguishing the fire was pretty anticlimactic, but that's how we found ourselves running the last few feet of our 400' hose line into a four-foot-high crawl space littered with old beer cans and trash. 

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Was it a rockin' good fire, full of excitement and good stories? Nope. Was it a chance for me to learn something about working on a fire scene? Absolutely. I mean, I'm happy for whatever I can get to do while in the street—I'm still technically assigned to the Training Academy, so I appreciate the time I've spent crashing on E15's couch (figuratively speaking, that is). 

Besides, the best "tips and tricks" seem to come from the guys when they're actually working a scene. Sure, they can sit at the watchdesk with me and tell stories, but the stuff they share while we're in the middle of doing something can be infinitely more valuable.

—————

As we crawled out and began gathering up our sections of hose, it was impossible not to notice all the fireworks going off around us. I mean, I expected people to be setting off fireworks on the eve of the greatest pyromaniac holiday of the year, but this many?

Damn near every apartment building around us had something exploding, whistling, flaring, or shooting into the air above it at some point. Courtyards, roofs, steps, middle of the street; not to mention the Nationals Stadium was putting on their own show, so we had quite a spectacle to watch as we racked hose. (I had a slightly better view, because the new guy always climbs up into the hose bed for this process.)

It was Friday night, a little after 11pm, and we still had a long night ahead of us.

I love this city.

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I hope everyone had a happy 4th of July, and I bet the crews on #4 had a good bit of fun.

A refreshing viewpoint.

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As paramedics, myself and my colleagues in recruit school have been hearing the same story since Day 1: "Well, just because you're a paramedic, you're going to catch flak from people in the department because they don't like EMS in general." And it's true—not everyone on the job (particularly the older crowd) is keen on the idea of integrating Fire and EMS. 

"Why are the firefighters going on stupid ambulance calls?"

"Why can't these guys just stay on the shitbox* where they belong?"

Granted, it's not common; but it's there. However, such is the burden of working in a department where the administration has embraced the combination system—especially the idea of a paramedic engine company. 

Either way, we've become fairly immune to the groans and (mostly) good-natured ribbing that occurs when someone reads "Firefighter/Paramedic" on our nametags. For the most part, the medics I came through rookie school with actually enjoy the job, and that's been our saving grace throughout this whole process.

Every so often, however, you find a voice in the crowd who offers a hopeful, uplifting viewpoint on the situation. Such was my experience on Monday, when I was bounced around like a pinball to finally come to rest doing a ride-along with the EMS Supervisor for the 4th Battalion. (My original preceptor at E15 was off, and I had an ALS evaluation test to go to, so I was at three different locations until I finally found a home for any reasonable length of time.)

Having joined DC in 1987 after many years of both volunteer and career fire/EMS experience, this Lieutenant has been involved in EMS for longer than I've been alive. Extremely laid back, he carried an easygoing mix of confidence and humor about himself, which has apparently served him well for decades. 

There wasn't too much going on in the 4th, so we didn't have the chance to go to any interesting scenes. We ran a few calls here and there, but they were mostly uneventful. The large majority of the time was spent talking, and he was able to pass on some advice that I would have been unwise to pass up. 

Like I said before, you can learn damn near anything from the experienced guys around you; you just have to know when to shut up and listen. 

I suppose it was surprising to find someone who spoke so highly of EMS and the medical aspect of a fire department. He really loves his job—a rare find in a world where most people would rather complain.

—————

With any luck, I'll be back to my (sort-of) home at 15 for the next tour. I think these occasional adventures in other houses are a good way to gain perspective on different houses, but it's fun over on the other side of the river.

No matter what happens to me, I'm usually guaranteed an interesting twenty-four hours no matter where I go. That's just how my luck goes.

As the EMS Lieutenant said to me as we drove along the Mall that night: 

"It's a great city. You'll get your share of it eventually, but just keep your head up and you'll get through all these hoops."

Well said, sir. I suppose that's all that any of us can do, really.




* Shit box [\ˈshit \ˈbäks\] Slang. An ambulance, particularly one with a notorious history of being poor quality or generally non-working. 

Acclimation.

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"Ow, shit! Sorry, man."


In the dim red light in the back of the cab, I could barely make out the "ah, it's okay" shrug that the lineman gave me. I mean, there's usually only two people being tossed around in the back of the engine, not three—and the sharp left turn we took a second ago on the way to a box alarm threw me against the door, with only Rocky to break my fall. Regroup, keep going. After all, we had a report of smoke coming from under the front door of the house. It might be a good first call for me, right?

Wrong. It was like my own personal comedy of errors. Not only was my brain a little fuzzy (it was around three in the morning, and I'm still growing accustomed to functioning in the early hours), but I kept dropping my stuff everywhere. Just about the time that I find a secure place to put my helmet, my SCBA starts falling over. Okay, got that, now if I can just—dammit, there goes my helmet again! Wait… where the hell did my hood go?!

(Can you tell I've never done this before?)

By some sort of miracle, I managed to get all my gear on before we reached the address. At the beginning of the shift, my officer told me to stick with the lineman; thus, when he pulled the crosslay, I followed behind him and flaked out the line.

At least, that was the plan. 

You see, we had to cross a few front yards and some sidewalks to get to the door, and the terrain can be sort of uneven…

I fell down. Face-first, of course; apparently it looked bad enough that one of the bystanders, a kid of about fourteen, piped up:

"Aw, damn, man. You okay? That looked like it hurt."

I mumbled a lame response as I adjusted my helmet, and scrambled to my feet. I hurried to catch up to my crew, desperately hoping I wouldn't find "OMG DC FIREMAN FALLS DOWN ON WAY TO FIRE LOL STUPID ROOKIE" on YouTube the next day. 

As it turns out, the occupants of the house had burned some food in the kitchen, and their neighbors saw the smoke from next door. They, in turn, called 911, who dispatched us, and then I heroically saved the day by smearing dirt all over the front of my coat. 

But hey, it's not all bad. I like to think of it like that old fishing joke: the worst day in the company is better than the best day at the Academy.

—————

There's a lot that I'm learning out in the street that I was never taught at the Academy. I fully expected that, but it's fascinating to see the practical side of things, instead of the "textbook" knowledge—and the only way to learn something like that is to do it a million times. 

My primary goal during this phase is to learn how to be a paramedic on an engine company. Unfortunately, I'm not allowed to start on my probationary fire studies right now, because my only focus is on learning how to integrate my EMS capabilities with the fire service. I have to keep reminding myself that 15 isn't my permanent assignment, because it's a damned good house and I'm enjoying myself immensely.

That being said, I'm soaking up every bit of knowledge I can. I've found that there's so much you can learn just by being around the guys from 15 and Rescue 3; you just have to know when to listen. 

This is going to take a lot of getting used to, both mentally and physically; but I'm loving every minute of it, and I look forward to where this journey will take me. 


Evaluation.

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Great news for the medics who were formerly stuck in limbo: we've been approved to stay on shift work, so we're being assigned temporary spots on engines until we complete all of our evaluations. We need a certain number of calls (and the accompanying paperwork) to prove that we know what we're doing as paramedics, and then we'll take the next step from there.


So until further notice, I'm working at 15 Engine in Anacostia. The crew is a great group of guys, and we seem to be getting along pretty well; I'm sure to have some interesting stories within the next few weeks.

For now, I have a home… and that's wonderful to hear. 

24 hours on, 72 hours off. Could I have a better schedule? I submit that I cannot.

Standing by.

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(AP) WASHINGTON – An 88-year-old gunman with a violent and virulently anti-Semitic past opened fire with a rifle inside the crowded U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum on Wednesday, fatally wounding a security guard before being shot himself by other officers, authorities said.

Washington Police Chief Cathy Lanier said the gunman was "engaged by security guards immediately after entering the door" with a rifle. "The second he stepped into the building he began firing."

Law enforcement officials said James W. von Brunn, a white supremacist, was under investigation in the shooting and that his car was found near the museum and tested for explosives. The weapon was a .22-caliber rifle, they added. They spoke on condition of anonymity, saying they were not authorized to discuss the investigation just beginning.

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"What in the hell…?"

For what seemed like the hundredth time, an MPD cruiser went screaming past our classroom window, making as much racket as possible with the siren. 

"So, is there something going on that we should know about?" we wondered out loud. 

As if on cue, Sgt. Paulson threw open the door and announced that because of what had just happened at the Holocaust Museum, the Department was now on a special alert in which nobody who is currently on duty can leave their respective posts (at this time, very little was known about the situation or the perpetrator, and the ever-present possibility of "terrorist incident" loomed eerily overhead). 

He left in a rush, leaving us with more questions than answers.

Oh, well—stuck here again. We turned back to our cardiac rhythm workbooks, the news of the shooting quickly fading from our minds. Suddenly, Sgt. Woodward's voice echoed down the hallway, his quick-stepping self not far behind.

"Three-five-nine! Three-sixty! Go home. All the medics in three-five-eight, get your gear and bring it to the apparatus bay."

We looked at one another, momentarily surprised.

"Engine 34, Engine 35, and Truck 41 are to be placed in service, stand
ing by for the city."

—————

Sure, there were enough instructors and officers at the Training Academy today to fill three pieces of apparatus with seasoned firefighters. But what in the hell did they want with us newbies, and where were they planning on stuffing eight probationers with full gear? 

It was a neat idea, but I had the same thought as when I saw the latest Star Trek movie, and Kirk is appointed Captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise at the end of the movie:

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"Uh… wasn't he a cadet in Starfleet Academy, like, a week ago?"

Nevertheless, we ran around for about twenty minutes, scraping together SCBAs, axes, saws, radios, and anything else that would bring our three beloved pieces up to par for a box alarm. PAT tags clipped onto the UDCs, gear laid out beside our respective apparatus, and radios holstered, we were ready to go—I won't even begin to describe how crazy the staffing was on each piece. 

And then… we waited. Always listening to the murmurs from the dispatch channel, we hoped in vain for the call that would never come. Nevertheless, I thought it was cool that we were officially in service, so I grabbed a quick picture in the downtime. This was the first time since I've been at the Academy that E-34, E-35, and T-41 have been ready to respond to an actual box alarm, if need be. 

Hours passed. Four grilled cheese sandwiches and hundreds of bullshit conversations later, we were finally allowed pack up and go home; the alert was lifted, and the Training Academy staff was freed. 

—————

What's that, you say? It's a crap story, because nothing really happened? Well, you're right. However, I relay it simply to drive home the point that this job is completely unpredictable, and any given day might bring something really intense. It's the uncertainty that draws me to the profession, you see—there's not a single day that's the same as any other. 

Regardless of what happens, the paramedics of 358 will continue our time at the Academy, refreshing ourselves on EMS things so that we can eventually be mentored out in the street. We've got a few weeks to go, for sure—but that's certainly no reason why we can't have any fun. 

Most-excellent-yet-unrealistic daydream #2,961: Let's keep the engines and the truck staffed by Academy personnel every day, and we'll do our Fire & EMS mentoring the old-school way.


Image source: http://www.startrekmovie.com